


As Fate Would Have It

by Pfain Ryder (Cat_Moon)



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Moon/pseuds/Pfain%20Ryder
Summary: How can a man who died in the electric chair in 1957 be on a beach in California in 1970?  When we change the big things, sometimes the ripples are wider than we expected.  God has a wickedly ironic sense of humor.





	As Fate Would Have It

**Author's Note:**

> Story takes place in the "Leap for Lisa" universe. Published in Alpha Chronicles #1. 1995.

June 26, 1957:

At the North Island Naval Air Station, a group of men stood outside to get a breath of fresh air and enjoy the sunshine on their faces. The atmosphere inside had been tense -- they were in the middle of deciding a court-martial for Ensign Albert Calavicci. On the twenty-second of the month, Commander Riker's wife Marcie had been raped and murdered.

Besides Calavicci, one man in particular had a vested interest in the proceedings. Having temporarily taken over the ensign's life, he felt it was up to him to clear the young man and find the real killer. Therefore, it was with a rising sense of dread that he listened to his observer's words.

"97 -- 98 -- 99 -- 100. Yes, there is a one hundred percent certainty that Ensign Calavicci will be found guilty and executed in the gas chamber."

_One hundred percent..._

XXX

October 6, 1969:

The young man stood almost at attention before the simple grave. He was dressed fairly typically for youth in this era, though he was a bit older. A pair of faded bell-bottom jeans hung low on his hips, torn at the knee and thigh almost two decades before that distinct look would become the height of fashion among rock stars. His multi-colored T-shirt sported a huge peace sign on the front, and a pair of love beads, a gift from a girlfriend, hung around his neck. He wore a tattered flannel shirt over the T-shirt, and dirty white sneakers on his feet. He'd seen better times; on the other hand, he'd seen worse.

Head bowed, his long hair hung in his face as he laid down the bouquet of flowers he had bought across the street. He dutifully made this pilgrimage every year, but he never knew exactly how or what to feel about things. He owed this much, though. So that there was at least one person who would not forget the man uncaringly laid to rest.

The marker said Albert Calavicci, but it was former Marine Corporal Gary Blaine he was honoring.

It was a tale like something out of the movies, an almost unbelievable story of a one in a million occurrence. The random factors that, coming together in perfect harmony, created a pattern. In fact, they would make a movie with a similar theme one day, and call it Sommersby. But he knew it was true, because he'd lived it.

The fact that they'd served on the same base as well as in the same prison wasn't a bit unusual, under the circumstances. Then, as fate would have it, Blaine and Calavicci had ended up in the prison infirmary at the same time. Calavicci with a concussion (he often wondered at the solicitous propriety of giving medical treatment to someone who was going to be executed that very night), and Blaine to have his stomach pumped. Al had "accidentally" fallen into a stone wall, Gary had tried to commit suicide. Blaine had been fascinated with death ever since he'd arrived, and was especially fascinated with Calavicci, no doubt because he was due to face the gas chamber.

They looked enough alike to be brothers, although any but the most cursory gaze would be enough to discern the differences. Blaine was a bit heavier, a bit taller, with a baby face that telegraphed the sheltered life he'd led before joining the military. Calavicci's face, while still young and handsome, spoke of the hard road he'd traveled to this dead end. But a quick look was all that was needed that night -- or, perhaps the turn of events could be attributed to executioners who couldn't quite bring themselves to take a good look at the man they were delivering into the hands of death.

That particular October sixth was an especially hectic one. Several of the prison officials had just been arrested or fired, after a probe uncovered massive corruption. People to fill the empty slots were quickly shipped in, but things were still in a state of confusion. Al had been unconscious at the time, but from what he'd pieced together afterwards, Blaine's first act had been to switch his chart with Al's. When the guards came in to get Al for his final walk down death row, they'd shouted, "Wake up, Calavicci, it's time to go." Blaine had calmly replied that he was already awake.

Al initially felt a stab of conscience, although he'd already been hardened by his three years on death row. He knew nothing could bring Blaine back, his own death would accomplish little. The deciding factor in his silence had been the note he found stuffed under him in the bed afterwards. It had read:

_Maybe you can make something better out of this life than I could ...._

And so it came to pass, that as of midnight on October 6, 1960, Gary Blaine died in the gas chamber as Al Calavicci. And the man now standing before the grave officially became Gary Blaine.

He'd been kept under surveillance for twenty-four hours, and when they figured he wasn't going to try killing himself again (he insisted that swallowing the cleaning fluid had been accidental), he was sent back to his cell. For the next few years he fought with every ounce of determination and cunning he possessed. To stay alive. To make sure they never found out he wasn't Blaine.

It wasn't easy, then or the years after. But he learned to cope, to protect his real identity and live as another. There was one major difference between the two men. Al was a survivor. Through all the hell, life never quite became a fate worse than death.

Not quite.

Fate works in funny ways, "Blaine" had come to realize early in life. It was not chance that brought these men together, they had something else in common. They'd both served at North Island NAS, under a commander named Riker. The man who'd stood and watched his wife being murdered, then accused Ensign Calavicci of the crime. Riker's self-incriminating testimony hadn't destroyed his career as Al's lawyer had predicted it would. Because shortly after the court-martial was over, the shrewd commander had made up a nice tidy list of all the men on the base he 'suspected' of being homosexual, and handed it over to the Naval Intelligence Service. The resulting witch hunt naturally made them forget all about any adultery, spousal abuse, or other questionable actions by Riker. It became known as Riker's Purge.

Gary Blaine was one of the men on the list. NIS agents found him in bed with another man when they'd come to get him for interrogation, and he'd been tried for sodomy, convicted, and jailed under military law. Like many other unfortunate men and women before and after, he chose to end his life rather than live with the disgrace.

Which left Al to live the life that would have been Gary's, fraught with unique consequences from the start. It wasn't easy to avoid prison "games" under any circumstances; when you were known as a convicted homo, it was inevitable. Al managed to make it through three years, his strength coming from the knowledge that no matter what the world did to him, he was and always would be free -- in his mind. The one thing no one could ever take from him. Then, in 1963, he got out of prison.

He had another T-shirt, one he'd painted himself, back at the crash pad in Height Ashbury. It read: Freedom -- what a trip.

In the months and years following his release, he'd had cause to wonder more than once if he was right about the nature of freedom. As an ex-con with a dishonorable discharge on his record -- and somehow, prospective employers seemed always to know what it was for -- opportunity was slim. He wandered the country doing odd jobs, and when the climate changed, he was ready to experience the psychedelic sixties in full and glorious detail. He attended war protests and love-ins, lived in a crash pad in Height-Ashbury, and a commune in Montana. Attempted to tune in to his inner being with LSD, and tried to tune out bitter reality with marijuana. His experiences in prison and with Gary had effectively changed his rigid attitudes about homosexuals, and with the liberal love-everyone atmosphere of the era, he did indeed love all.

Although he'd left Calavicci's life behind, it still sometimes haunted him in dreams at night. Hazy recollections of a life that didn't seem to have ever been his, brief moments of happiness that surely couldn't have belonged to this disillusioned soul. He dreamed of his beautiful Lisa, the only woman he'd ever really loved. His once best friend Chip, who'd done a crash and burn in '62. Suspicious circumstances had led to speculation that Ferguson walked into it on purpose, but Al knew people like Chip didn't purposely check out of a life bright with promise. Suicide was for the hopeless, the ones who couldn't live with the cards they'd been dealt. Like Gary. Al now held that losing hand... but he was an expert at bluffing.

Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't had a good time. The sixties had been...out of this world. Freedom and sunshine and love. Ideals that dared to run wild in the streets. Expanding your mind, reaching for something higher, more meaningful. Looking around you with a sense of wonder, knowing you were seeing history happen. And actually being a part of it all. It had been incredible.

Now, though, it was 1969. Al was at a crossroads in his life. He knew that the country would be changing again, a new decade beginning. Already it was in the air, written on the wind. And as much as he'd enjoyed the carefree days past, at thirty-five, he was beginning to wonder what he was going to do with the life ahead of him. He had a feeling love beads and dropping out wasn't going to work forever.

The question was, what would?

XXX

October 9, 1970:

Al sat with his back against the pillar under the boardwalk, watching the surf lap gently at the shore. The night swallowed up the horizon, encroaching distant shores in a comforting womb of obscurity. The ocean breeze was chilly through the thin material of his clothing, but he ignored the intrusion.

He took a deep drag on the joint in his hand, contemplating how to change the world. The first and most important thing was to do it without attracting attention to yourself. Once they caught on what you were about, they fought with dogged determination to hold onto the obsolete, ignorant ways they'd always known. Their head up their tight ass was right where they wanted it.

Pot always made him philosophical. It wasn't him that was planning this still-born revolution. He'd lost faith in the individual's ability to change the world a long time ago. Now, thousands of young people were slowly giving up the fight he'd always known was hopeless. A new age was dawning, and it wasn't the age of Aquarius. He watched it all with amused detachment, not quite willing to believe it would make a bit of difference in his own little world. The only mystery he needed to solve was, where would he fit into this decade?

A sound caught his attention, and he watched a lone figure walking towards him on the beach. Hidden as he was under the shadow of the boardwalk, he temporarily gave up philosophy to contemplate a very nice ass, as the guy stopped almost in front of him and turned toward the ocean. For a tense moment, Al wondered if he was going to be witness to a suicide attempt, but instead the stranger bent over to scoop up some shells and began throwing them into the water. The dejected posture and aura emanating from the figure somehow made him more alluring.

After watching for a few more minutes, Al broke the solitude of his unwitting guest. "Do you think the individual can make a difference?"

The man spun around, startled, his eyes straining until they made out the owner of the unexpected voice. "What?" he said, taking a few cautious steps closer.

"I said, do you think the individual can make a difference?"

After regarding Al for a moment, he answered, "I think so," his young voice holding a trace of uncertainty. "Yes," more firmly.

"You're wrong," Al denied, pleased to be able to enlighten this fellow with his profound wisdom. "One person means absolutely nothing to the scheme of things."

"I don't believe that," the kid said quietly.

"Oh boy," Al muttered, "an optimist." He held out the joint. "Wanna hit?"

"Uh..." the kid began with obvious hesitation.

Al peered closer at his guest, recognizing him from the anti-war rally he'd attended that afternoon. The kid had hovered nervously in the back, sticking out like a sore thumb. He wore his identity like a message painted across his forehead. "Oh, sorry man, I didn't realize who I was askin'."

"What do you mean?"

Al gestured vaguely to encompass all of him. "Mr. Iowa Farmboy."

"Indiana," he corrected a bit defensively.

Al shrugged. "Same thing." And grinned when the joint was taken from him by a determined hand. After a brief inhalation and moment of coughing, it was given back.

The kid took a closer look at Al, his face registering recognition. "I know you."

"Yeah?" Al said noncommittally.

"I saw you at the rally today. I'm Sam," he offered with Midwestern politeness.

Al was a bit surprised that he'd been remembered, contemplating possible reasons in the back of his mind. "Gary. You protesting the war, Sam?"

"No, I...well, I uh, I'm not sure."

"Been drafted yet?"

"No, I, uh, I'm in school." Faltering, his anger, pain, and confusion showing through. "My brother...was a Navy Seal."

"I'm sorry," Al murmured, surprised at the unfeigned sincerity in his voice. "Could have been me," he found himself mumbling under his breath.

"Are you dodging the draft?" Sam asked candidly.

Al laughed, shaking his head. "They don't draft ex-cons who spent time in a military prison." He tried to figure out if it was bitterness or irony he was expressing.

"For what?" Sam asked with youthful curiosity, making a place for himself in the sand next to Al.

Al paused to take a drag on the joint, wondering how he'd gotten into this conversation in the first place. "For a crime I didn't commit."

Sam smiled, a lethal weapon, Al couldn't help but notice. "Give me a hint. Is it anything I should be worried about?"

Al studied him with interest, laughing softly at his private joke.

"What's so funny?" Sam demanded. The kid liked challenges, he could tell.

Al sobered, firmly pushing dangerous thoughts to the back of his mind. While it was rare to end up in prison for homosexual practices in the civilian world, jail bait was a whole other matter. And despite the well-built physique that hinted at some sort of physical training, that's exactly what Sam was. "I know what you're feeling right now. You want to believe in what our country stands for, in its military, be a patriot. But on the other hand, your brother's dead and everyone's saying we're wrong to be in this war. You feel guilty, but you feel angry, too."

"Yes," Sam said in a nearly inaudible voice.

"Let me tell you something. The proud military that's defending our country...isn't what it pretends to be."

Sam waited as if hoping he'd elaborate. When it didn't come, he prompted, "Then what is it?"

"Mostly, it's hypocritical. Rigid. Sometimes dishonest. Unfair," the last almost spat, as each word had become more bitter than the previous one.

"Sounds like you're hurting too," Sam said quietly, his words almost swallowed up by the surf. Each observed a period of silence in honor of his own private pain.

"I was a pilot," Al said out of the blue.

"Huh?"

"In the Navy." He gazed upwards, clouds were visible even in the darkness. "All I ever wanted to do since I was a kid was fly. Like a bird, man, up where you feel free." He abruptly added, "I haven't flown in thirteen years." He shook himself, turning his attention to the now-burned down joint. "Jeez, I'm gettin' too melancholic, I need a picker-upper." He reached into his pocket and pulled out another joint.

"Why do you bother with that stuff?" Sam asked in a tone devoid of censure, holding only interest.

Al looked him straight in the eye. "To make the pain stop for awhile." He held out the joint in offering again.

It seemed as if Sam stared at it forever, as if time had slowed to a slow stretch. Al could read the thoughts telegraphed to his face. He meant to refuse immediately, then paused for that second long enough to change the course of his deliberations. Weighed what Al had said about pain. Finally, reached out with an unsteady hand and accepted.

Al took pity, giving him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I promise you won't go out and start mainlining heroin tomorrow."

Sam frowned as he passed the joint back to Al. "Drugs and alcohol are crutches used by people who can't face reality."

"You got that right," Al answered fervently. Then he pinned Sam with an observing gaze. "So you're saying you can't face reality either?"

Sam bowed his head. "I just wish...things would have been different."

"I know the feeling," Al agreed again. Their eyes met and held, as if both feeling the truth of some bond forged in -- if not shared experiences -- then shared feelings.

That was the beginning of it. They talked late into the night, and then Sam had asked Al if he had a place to stay. Realizing the dubious wisdom and/or motives of accepting the altruistic offer from a kid he was attracted to while he was high as a kite, Al had said yes. He had a place to stay, thank you. Then they bid their good-nights, and went their separate ways.

It was an unspectacular, altogether too ordinary meeting, for something that would so profoundly alter two men's lives.

XXX

Al was being followed. He was sure of it now, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. Beckett reminded him of a stray puppy, all hopeful enthusiasm, following around behind a benevolent being, hoping to find himself a new master...

That was a dangerous analogy.

Sam had been at the second rally. And now he was here, supposedly on a casual stroll, doing what he was best at, sticking out like a sore thumb. That kid was really gonna have to learn how to blend in.

Al contented himself with watching for awhile, appreciating the way the guy walked, how his jeans clung in all the right places. His hair, golden from the sun, shone even in the nighttime street lights. He'd found out during their talk on the beach that Sam had earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, as well as having played on his high school basketball team. It explained the fact that this seventeen-year-old did something to his hormones most pimply-faced, skinny teens failed to do. But there was more than that, there was something about Sam that both deeply compelled and nearly terrified him. With an uncharacteristic bout of cowardice, he wasn't in any hurry to find out what it was. Then he wondered if perhaps he had the same effect on Sam.

That was another dangerous thought.

Urgently in need of distraction from the direction of his contemplation, Al ducked out of sight, circled around, and came up behind his unsuspecting shadow.

"Sightseeing?" he asked with a touch of sarcasm, amused when Sam nearly jumped out of his skin as he whipped around.

"Gary!"

"Tell me how surprised you are to run into me here."

Sam colored, and shifted his gaze to the ground. The kid would never make a good poker player. "I, uh..."

"Rule number one," Al said, taking his arm and steering him down the street. "Always have at least two excuses ready beforehand."

"What if you don't even know the truth?" Sam asked straight-forwardly.

"Especially if you don't. So how's it going in academia?"

"Okay," Sam answered vaguely.

"If you're gonna go slumming, at least try to look the part," Al told him, reaching over and unbuttoning the first three buttons on Sam's shirt, ignoring the little thrill it gave him. He lifted the love beads off of his neck and slipped them over Sam's head.

The kid was looking at him in that way again, the one that made him very nervous. Sam fingered the beads almost as if they were a long lost treasure instead a cheap piece of costume jewelry. Or maybe that was just fanciful thinking.

The scary part was he didn't even have being high as an excuse tonight.

"I'm kinda hungry, wanna grab something to eat?" Al asked. "I know a place that does great chili dogs."

"Okay," Sam smiled, encouraged.

 _I gotta get off this ride,_ Al thought to himself, as they continued down the street side by side.

"You didn't tell me the truth about having a place to stay, did you?" Sam asked a few minutes later, as if he already knew the answer.

"What makes you think that?" Al responded evasively.

"I heard about the fight you and that guy named Pince had over his girlfriend dumping him for you. How long have you been sleeping on the beach?"

Al was amazed. Of course, there was part of the story Sam didn't know...the real reason behind his house-mate's surliness wasn't that he hated losing his girl, it was that he'd wanted Al for himself.

"You gonna be a detective when you grow up, Sam?"

"No, a quantum physicist."

Al blinked, thrown by the literal answer. "I thought you were in for degrees in music and computer science, then headed for med school?"

"Yeah, first," Sam explained. "But my eventual goal is physics. For the area I want to explore, the medical degree will come in handy, believe me."

Al almost blurted, _what the hell are you hanging around with_ _ **me**_ _for?_ but he held his tongue, as they'd reached the hot dog stand. Instead, he ordered one with mustard and ketchup. Sam had his with relish and onions, and they went across the street to sit on a bench in the park as they ate.

"So what area do you want to explore?" Al asked, continuing their conversation.

Sam regarded him with a speculative gaze. "Time travel, " he said.

Al's hot dog nearly dropped from his mouth. After a moment of recovery, he replied, "Do you know what that sounds like?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. The last person I confided it to thought I was on LSD," he said with a grin. "But it's possible, I know it."

"Wow," Al murmured, trying to wrap his mind around all the implications and possibilities of such an adventure. If a person could do something like that... Who needed drugs?! "And you think you can do it?"

"I think it can be done. I hope I can do it."

Like a needle skipping on a record, Al's mind jumped back to a previous groove. "If you're always getting laughed at, why'd you tell me about it?"

"I knew you wouldn't laugh at me," he answered simply.

Al stared at him for a few moments. "Sometimes you really spook me out, you know that?"

"Sorry, I don't mean to," Sam said, all innocence.

"Jesus. Good luck." His temporary excitement was extinguished as the reality of his own life settled over him. He once had a bright future ahead of him, too. Now he had nothing.

"Well, thanks for the hot dog, Beckett," he said, abruptly standing up. "See ya around."

"Hey -- wait --" Sam called, going after him. "Was it something I said?"

To his chagrin, Al found he didn't have the strength to walk away cold. "No, I just..." he stopped, shaking his head instead of answering.

"You could go back to school, you know," Sam said softly.

Al looked up into those caring eyes and wished he hadn't. "Yeah, sure, how?" he asked rhetorically.

"When you really want something bad enough, you can always find a way."

"Maybe that's how it always works for _you_..." Al began, hating himself for the venom he heard in his voice. "Shit," he grumbled, savagely searching in his pockets until he came up with a joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply.

"It doesn't have to be like that," Sam said in a voice full of sympathy. "Do you like me?" he asked in a non sequitur.

Al gazed at the sincere face for the barest of seconds, knowing his ability to lie to Sam, at least right to his face, was already long gone. "Yeah," he answered roughly. "I like you a lot."

"If you'll let me be your friend...you won't have to fight alone."

"Why are you doing all this?" Al demanded.

"Because I like you."

It was so sincere, so simple, Al almost wept. He took another drag of the joint instead. And as they continued wandering the streets, he felt his mood greatly improve with each hit. Before long, he felt like his old self again. Or his new self. Whoever he was, he felt pretty good again.

"Isn't it great?" he enthused, gesturing around him.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Everything. All of it. The smell of the air, the people out and about, doing their own thing."

Sam looked around at the entirety Al was talking about. They congregated on street corners in groups, talking, laughing, sometimes necking. With flowers in their hair, drugs in their systems, and stars in their eyes. Music floating softly out of someone's radio accompanied the surreal play. Out of touch, or completely in touch? "But what's it all about?" Sam asked.

 _Dancing in the Moonlight_ came on someone's radio, and Al pulled Sam under a tree. "Freedom, baby," he said, starting to dance with him.

At first surprised, Sam seemed to feel the liberating effects, and enthusiastically followed his lead. Soon they found themselves joined by a group of others, the group growing bigger, all dancing in joyful celebration of life.

When the song ended, a girl walked up to Sam, smiling. She gave him the flower from her hair and kissed him, then departed without a word. The crowd dispersed, and they too started on their way again.

"That was..." Sam began, the light in his eyes communicating better than any words he could've found.

"Yeah," Al agreed, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Now tell me something," he continued boldly, having gotten himself high enough to bolster his courage. "Really. What are you doing following me around?"

Sam grinned at him. "Well, I was thinking... With my brains and your experience, we could go far."

"How far did you have in mind?" he inquired.

"Right now? How about back to my place? It's supposed to rain tonight, and the sand gets really nasty when it's wet."

"Boy scout," Al muttered, following him bemusedly.

XXX

"I've got a bedroom, so the couch is yours for as long as you want it," Sam said, leading the way into the apartment.

Al looked around curiously. It was small, but cozy. Filled mostly with books, and a few pieces of furniture that had seen better days, its major saving grace was the fireplace in the corner.

"Nice pad," Al said, taking off the backpack they'd stopped by the beach to retrieve, and putting it down beside the couch.

"Compared to?" Sam asked pointedly.

"Okay, so it wasn't...exactly what I'd expected. But the fireplace is nice. Romantic spot for the ladies."

Sam turned away, busying himself with lighting a fire. "Not when it's your only means of heating."

"Well, I'll accept for tonight, anyway," Al told him. It had started pouring just as they'd climbed the stairs to the building. "But you don't have much yourself..."

"I want you to accept my help," Sam said, sounding slightly wounded, or maybe offended.

"And if I don't?" Al inquired with amusement.

"It's not like you have nothing to offer in return," Sam said in a tight voice.

"Oh, what, the benefit of my vast experience?" Al returned mockingly.

Sam spun around. "Stop that!" he demanded. "I'm sick of hearing you feel sorry for yourself and putting yourself down. I don't wanna talk about that anymore," he tacked on unexpectedly. "You hungry again?"

Al grinned. "How'd you guess?"

When Sam returned from the kitchen area with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sodas, Al was sitting before the fire. He joined him on the floor and passed over the food.

"Thanks," Al said, taking one of the sandwiches. "I hope you don't think," he began, then stopped. "I want you to know that I really do appreciate all this."

"I didn't say you didn't appreciate it," Sam responded with a brief smile.

"You're awfully sure of me. Trusting, letting me into your place like this when I could be anyone. There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Isn't that what this movement is all about? Love your brother?"

 _Don't I wish,_ Al thought, distracted yet again, by the firelight flickering on Sam's face. "A lot of those kids are looking at the world through rose colored glasses. I'm old enough to know what it's really like."

"No, what you mean is, they're optimistic about life while you're pessimistic about it."

"Comes with the territory."

Sam reached out a hand, withdrew it. "I don't want to make you upset again," he said in a small voice.

Al's eyes narrowed, his instincts finally grinding into gear...as usual, too late. "What do you want?"

Sam's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He closed it and looked away at the fire. "I like you," he finally whispered.

"Oh jeez," Al moaned, mentally kicking himself for not seeing this coming.

"Pince thought I was your new...that we were..."

Al covered his face with his hands. _God has a wickedly ironic sense of humor_ , he reflected. Spread out before him on a silver platter, what he'd been fantasizing about for days. Normally, he would've had no qualms about taking what was offered. Free love, after all.

It drove him crazy that there wasn't any shred of normalcy about this bizarre relationship he found himself in. It made him feel things he hadn't felt in a very long time, tempted him with visions of a man he'd buried years ago. The lines that had blurred now wavered, then re-formed into an eerily familiar soul, looking back at him from the bottom of a dark pit.

A lost soul named Albert Calavicci.

He felt amazingly soft hands removing his own from his face, an open and beautiful face watching his. Eyes that begged for something he was only too happy to give. Need echoing his that was impossible to resist...

The next thing he knew, those tempting lips were touching his, being met with answering desire. He lost himself in it for long moments...then, somehow managed to push himself away.

"You don't wanna do this."

"How do you know what I want?" Sam answered with a trace of belligerence.

Al shook his head, still composing himself. "Okay -- have you ever been with another guy before?"

"Yes." An all-too obvious lie.

"You're transparent as glass, kid."

Sam sat up and turned away, hugging his knees. "I'm sorry," he whispered in a tiny voice. "I shouldn't have just assumed...I mean, if you're not interested..."

 _Oh, he's good,_ Al thought with admiration. _This one's gonna be a handful._ He began rubbing Sam's back soothingly.

The question was, how was _he_ gonna handle Sam?

"I didn't exactly say that," Al said cautiously. And instantly regretted it when a sweetly hopeful expression turned towards him. He held up a hand. "First, I want to know why you want to sleep with me."

The question seemed to take Sam by surprise, he hesitated as if unsure of his answer.

"I mean, is this part of your 'rebelling'? Maybe you're just kinda mixed up, with your brother dyin' and all..."

"If that's the way you feel about it..." Sam snapped angrily, and started to rise. Al held him back. He was apparently going to keep going until he found a tactic that worked. You had to admire his tenacity.

"All I want is the truth," Al told him.

"Oh, so I'm supposed to go spilling my guts to you, when I don't even know how you fee--"

Al cut him off by capturing his lips, giving him a little taste of what he thought he was looking for. Designed to dissuade. Even as a small part of his mind knew he was underestimating this package. He forced himself to break the kiss, noting that each time it got harder. _As well as somethin' else..._ "Now you know how I feel, you can answer my question."

"I like you."

"It's a start."

Sam bit his lip, then continued. "I'm lonely here."

Al nodded knowingly. The boy, sheltered all his life despite his genius, away from home for the first time. He knew how you could fall into this trap, how circumstances could re-shape you. It had happened to him. He had no desire to attain revenge by passing it on to someone else, despite how attracted he might be to that person. It wouldn't be right. He sighed regretfully, although he'd known all along how this scenario had to turn out.

Sam went on, finally confessing unfettered. "You're the first person I've met that I can really talk to. I've never felt like anyone understood me, not even my family. But with you...it's different. You're different."

"Why me?" Al asked. "I mean, you didn't even know me when you first started following me around."

Sam looked away, slight embarrassment adding to the fire's orange glow on his cheeks. "You'll think it's silly," he murmured.

"Try me."

Sam looked at him again. "When I first saw you, I just knew...there was somebody terrific inside."

Al found himself speechless. Sam really meant it, honestly and without ulterior motives. When was the last time anyone had thought him special?

And he knew he was in trouble.

"Look, Sam...what kind of man would I be if I...took advantage of someone who's young and impressionable? You're just learning all this human relationship stuff, you don't need someone screwing your head up."

Sam gazed at him with what seemed like fond exasperation. "What, because we're both men, and you think you're the 'big bad pervert' who's gonna corrupt the innocent lamb?" He shook his head, and when he spoke again, it was in genius-textbook mode. "While the exact 'cause' of homosexuality hasn't been proven yet, all the data suggests that some innate tendencies towards such behavior must exist before anyone will engage in it. You can't 'turn' someone gay, Gary. Or bisexual."

Temporarily diverted from the situation at hand, Al found himself reflecting on what this theory meant to himself. "Are you saying I had a secret desire to have sex with men even before I went to prison?"

"Oh, Gary..." Sam's sympathetic exclamation reminded him that he hadn't told Sam about the grim realities he'd faced in prison. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "It must have been..." in an apparent inability to come up with an appropriate adjective, he didn't finish. "Is that why you think making love with men is wrong?"

"I...didn't say that, exactly." Caught in his own logic, he fought for balance. Where had the prude come from, when before this he was a firm believer in the purity of sharing bodies this way?

"Do you enjoy it?" Sam queried.

At this point, Al could only nod.

"Are you...attracted to me?" he asked shyly.

Al nodded again.

Sam was reaching out, trailing tentative fingers into the opening of his shirt in a thoroughly delightful, questing innocence that was driving him to distraction.

Finally snapping out of his daze, Al removed Sam's hand. "Jail bait," he said succinctly.

"Huh?" Sam said, sounding like he'd been wrenched from some kind of spell.

"You - are - a - minor," he enunciated clearly.

"I won't tell if you won't," Sam replied, reaching out again with a playful smile.

Al realized that even knowing his tricks wouldn't protect him from this one. "You're gonna be the death of me yet."

"Some big bad hippie you are," Sam teased. "I'm on to you."

And Al knew Sam was right. He wasn't a part of their generation. He could play the role, fit in for awhile, even enjoy the hell out of it. But he couldn't escape his past forever, he was a part of all that created him, doomed to be followed for the rest of his life. He'd been right back at Gary's grave. A new chapter was about to begin for him. And somehow, Sam Beckett had become a catalyst for it.

He wondered if he'd be a part of it, too.

This time, Al chose his words carefully. "I do believe a person has a certain responsibility for his actions and influence on other people. I'm not sure you're really ready for this. And I know it's a bad idea right now. I don't want to go back to prison."

Sam let go of him, realization transforming the soft expression into dawning gravity. "You never did tell me what you were in jail for."

"Sodomy."

"But...you said you were in prison for a crime you didn't commit."

"That's right." Technically, it was still the truth. He hated the pretense such a huge lie required, just like he hated it ever time Sam called him Gary. But he'd protected his secret too long to give it up on a small chance. He already had too much to lose with this one.

"Then you--you were straight and went to prison and then--" Sam's sharp mind came to all the right conclusions. "You were branded something you hadn't been, and now you have to live with the consequences..."

God, it was so close to the truth. It _was_ the truth. Al was overwhelmed by the knowledge that he finally had someone to share it with. And this person believed him.

Sam touched Al's face with his hand, but didn't go further. "Maybe...maybe you're not ready for this yet, either," he said, sounding very adult -- and more than a little regretful.

Al couldn't bear to have him let go, he captured the hand, pressing it to his cheek. "Still friends?" he asked tremulously.

"I hope so," Sam answered.

"Me too." He hugged Sam, feeling absurdly like he'd made a friend for life.

Hoping with every fiber of his being that he had.

XXX

Al watched the orange and yellow flames form fleeting abstract shapes, feeling the warmth seep into his soul. It was later the same night, and they were watching the fire together. Sam's head was pillowed on his chest, and his fingers roamed through the kid's soft hair greedily. They'd lapsed into an intimate affection that was working at the moment, but Al knew would become frustrating real fast. It was a problem he didn't want to face, because he couldn't bear to give up what he'd found.

"Would you like to go back to school?" Sam broke the silence.

"Sure." Al was in the mood to indulge Sam, for some ungodly reason feeling very good -- despite everything.

"You could stay here with me, apply for grants and stuff."

"No, I couldn't," Al told him gently. _Never mind the fact that living here with you while unable to touch would put me round the bend._ "There are no jobs for me here, Sam. Not with my record. And before you say anything, I'm not sponging off you."

"So what happens now?"

Al's hold on the strands of hair tightened involuntarily. He couldn't answer.

Sam didn't speak for awhile either, and Al had almost decided the subject was closed again when he said, "I have an...idea."

"What?" Al asked warily, feeling a pang of regret as the head on his chest lifted.

Sam turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, facing his friend.

And he was drawn to those lips like a moth to a flame, just brushed them with his own briefly. "God, you're so..."

Sam pressed his pelvis forward teasingly. "At the height of my sexual--"

"Shut up," Al growled.

"It's just an idea," Sam cautioned, getting back to the topic at hand. "You don't have to agree, I just thought it might be a...a solution for everyone."

"Just tell me already!"

"Well, you remember me telling you how guilty I feel being here, now that Tom's...gone and there's no one back home to help my dad?" Al nodded. "I'm really afraid they're going to lose the farm, and well," he continued in a rush, "you could go to school in Indiana and live at the farm, get room and board in exchange for helping him run things."

Al was temporarily speechless. "They'd...let some stranger they don't know just move in?" he finally asked, skeptically.

"I know you," Sam replied, as if that said it all. "You don't have any experience, but it's not hard to learn, just hard work."

It didn't take Al long to come to the conclusion that it was the best offer he'd had in a long, long time. In fact, it was a terrific offer. He'd be giving a hand to someone else in need, and receiving their aid in return. A new start, where maybe he could actually make something out of the ruins of his life. At the very least, he'd have a place. And a tie with Sam.

"Add a scientific degree to the one you have in engineering," Sam promised him, "and you'll always have a job wherever I am."

With a mind like Sam's, Al knew he'd go far. And he was offering to let Al be a part of that. Wanted Al to be a part of it.

He grinned, feeling freer than he ever had in any commune. "You got a deal." He held out his hand.

Sam smiled and embarrassed him by kissing his palm instead of shaking it. "It means working long hours and studying, too. And no more drugs. It won't be easy," he warned.

"Nothing in my life ever was," Al answered, gazing deeply into the earnest face. "Except you."

Sam's answering smile brought out the sun of a new day.

XXX

Al was almost -- but not quite -- surprised to find that this goodbye was the hardest of his life. And unlike the rest, this one wasn't even going to be permanent.

"I want you to promise me something," he told Sam.

"What?"

"Try dating girls."

Sam made an exasperated noise.

"Just try it."

He looked away, then back at Al. "Okay."

"And get laid."

"Gary!"

"You're not gettin' in my pants unless you've been with a girl first, capice?"

"You're hopelessly puritanical, you know that?"

"Just when it comes to you," he answered.

"Why?" Sam moaned plaintively.

"I don't know," Al said honestly, as arms pulled him close.

"Just my luck."

They hugged hard, neither one wanting to let go. Al decided he could stay like that for all eternity, and never want for more.

"I'm gonna miss you," Sam whispered into his ear.

"I'll miss you, too...so much." Hard to believe only a few short months ago he didn't even know this infuriating, wonderful human being.

"Write," Sam said, making it sound like a question and demand both.

"I will."

"Call."

"Often as I can."

"Don't forget me..."

Al snorted, taking Sam's face in his hands and pinning him with an ardent gaze. "I could never forget you." The lips that seemed made for his met him halfway. It was endlessly sweet, heartrendingly short.

Sam's pleased smile made the sentimentality worthwhile. "I could never forget you, either," he vowed.

XXX

August 8, 1971:

Al fumbled to get his keys out of his pocket without dropping the bottle of wine he held, finally managing to let himself into the apartment. Both he and Sam had returned from Indiana the week before, Sam to work on a paper he was writing, Al to spend the remaining summer vacation with Sam. It had gone so fast...

The wine was to serve several possible purposes, besides celebrating Sam's birthday. He also felt it would help give him courage to face a truth that had been too long put off. And, if Sam reacted badly, he planned to use it to get totally shit-faced. Multi-useful, that good old vino.

"Sam? You home?" he called, tossing the keys onto the table.

"In here," Sam called from the bedroom. "C'mon in, I have a something for you."

"What are you talking about?" Al asked, walking down the hall to the bedroom and opening the door. "It's _your_ bir--"

The words died in his throat at the scene that greeted him. Sam was lounging on the bed, wearing nothing but his birthday suit and the love beads Al had given him last year that he hadn't taken off since.

Al had a feeling he knew what his present was.

He could feel his heart race and his groin tighten as he surveyed the splendor spread out before him. "Ahhh...that's...nice," he stammered. Any minute he was going to start drooling.

Despite the distance between them, it had been a long, hard almost-year. While there hadn't been many spare moments for idle daydreams, ones similar to this had followed him into sleep frequently. He knew there was some things he wanted to say, but every time he tried to form coherent words, he lost his train of thought.

"I'm eighteen now," Sam informed him. "Wanna join me?"

Something, he was never quite sure what, just barely managed to contain him from attacking. He glanced down, surprised to find the bottle of wine still in his hand. "I uh, got some wine. I'll get some glasses." And he retreated into the kitchen.

The process of searching for glasses, with shaking hands, helped to clear his head a bit and remind him of what he was supposed to be doing. When he returned to the bedroom, he paused outside the door, not looking in. "Sam? Could you cover up for a minute?"

"What?" The voice was filled with surprise, disappointment, and insecurity.

Al almost groaned. "Please? Just for a few minutes, while I talk to you about something."

"I'm covered," he answered surly.

Al peeked, and satisfied that he was indeed covered, entered the room.

"Gary, I--"

"Just don't say anything. Okay?" Al make quick work of pouring the wine, keeping his distance from the body in the bed as he handed over a glass. "I got something I have to tell you, and I gotta let you know before we... You may not be very happy with me afterwards." He gulped his own full glass down.

"There's someone else?" Sam asked quietly.

Al swore in several languages. "No, god, no. It's just that...I haven't been entirely honest with you. As a matter of fact, there's something important you don't know about me."

"Whatever it is--"

"--Whatever is it, it's only fair that you know. I'm not Gary Blaine," he blurted quickly, before he could lose the nerve. "My name is really Al Calavicci. I was sent to prison for a murder-rape I didn't commit. Gary was the one convicted of sodomy. He was suicidal and he...assumed my identity while I was unconscious and took my place in the gas chamber." He'd been standing at the door, shifting with nervous energy and desire for flight during the whole rushed speech. "So I took on his identity. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I wanted to prove myself first, so you'd know..."

And he hoped he'd done that. He'd worked harder than he ever had in his life, doing everything he could for the Beckett family, helping to get the farm back in the black, and getting straight A's, too. Everyone liked and trusted him. Even considered him part of the family.

" _Gas chamber?_ " Sam breathed in a stricken tone.

"Yeah," Al answered, not sure how to respond, or how Sam was actually taking the news. "I hope you can forgive me," he said in a low voice. "And I hope you know I'd never betray you or your family's trust in me. I never wanted to deceive you. I swear to God I didn't do it," he finished emotionally.

"Al," Sam said, as if trying the name on for size, "can I have my birthday present now?" in a tremulous voice.

He knew Sam wasn't talking about the wrapped package on the top shelf in the closet.

Al felt a rush of love so strong, he barely kept standing. He came over and knelt on the bed, and Sam rose up to meet him. This time, the powerful kiss held certain knowledge that there would be no limits imposed. He'd never asked if Sam had kept his promise about girls, didn't care at this point. Sam wanted him, and he wanted Sam, and he couldn't have given a damn about anything else if he'd tried.

After long delirious moments of deep kissing, Al found Sam's hand and pressed it to his erection. "This is what you do to me," he crooned.

Sam's eyes closed and he swayed, molding his hand and the rest of his body tighter against Al. "Take 'em off," he mumbled nearly incoherently, tugging at the waistband of Al's pants.

Impatience, enforced abstinence, youthful desire, were a potent combination. A whirlwind of passion blurred reality, as their bodies, hungry for each other, struggled to overcome the bounds of separateness. Al's clothes had barely been shed when the culmination of a year's worth of longing washed over them in fierce release. No time to savor, to cherish.

But it didn't matter, because next time was slower. And the time after, was all of that and more.

XXX

They lay entangled in each other's arms, watching the dawn try to seep in between the cracks in the Venetian blinds. Exhaustion had caught up with them some time ago, but both were struggling stubbornly against its pull, not wanting to put an end to the perfect night.

"Al..." Sam murmured. "I like it. It fits you better than Gary."

Al's hands roamed with free rein. "And you fit me better than anyone, ever."

"Good," Sam said, reaching up to claim a kiss.

"You're not mad at me?"

"After what we just shared..."

"You didn't seem mad at me before, either," Al pointed out with a trace of amazement.

"I understand why you didn't tell me. I'm just glad you feel you can confide in me now. All I could really think about was...that you almost died..." He tightened his arms around Al in reaction.

Al soothed him. "I'm alive, and better than well. In the morning," he promised, "...after we've eaten a huge breakfast," he added, realizing dinner had consisted of a trace amount of protein and nothing more, "I'll tell you the whole story."

"Hmm hmm," Sam murmured sleepily. "It's gonna be harder than ever to let you go this time," he observed, obviously enjoying the feel of Al's skin as he slid against it.

"Don't remind me now," Al said, just the mention making him feel the separation pangs already. "We still have a couple of weeks left."

"Would've had more, if you hadn't insisted we wait until I was eighteen," Sam grumbled good-naturedly, and Al hit him lightly.

"Go to sleep, Sam. We need our rest..."

"Al," Sam said as if he'd been saying it all his life, "promise me that there'll be a day when we can be together all the time...forever."

"Sammy -- I'd promise you anything."

"Share my dreams with me?"

"Forever," Al vowed.

XXX

November 15, 1999:

_Forever..._

Al snapped out of his revelry as someone sat down beside him on the bench. He looked over to see St. John's sympathetic gaze on him.

"I know how difficult this leap has been on you, Gary," the Englishman said. "However, it's a large base, and we haven't even run into 'you' yet. No reason to assume we will," he added.

Difficult was an understatement. He'd almost had a coronary when he found out Sam had leaped into himself -- and at what point! "I'm okay," he assured St. John.

"It's always difficult when Samuel leaps into one of our lives. Remember when he leapt into my daughter during her finals week? I nearly had a breakdown."

Al had to smile, recalling those days when the reserved observer had been anything but staid over the situation.

"You're afraid that Samuel will alter something in your past that prevents you from ending up here at the project."

Astute, he was. But there was so much more, things St. John didn't know... Al was terrified that Sam would do what he thought he was _supposed_ to -- get Bingo Calavicci exonerated from the murder charges. As well as nervously hoping no one would run into the real Gary Blaine on this leap. Sam was Swiss cheesed, but the shrewd observer...seeing Sam as the person he'd leaped into, Al was surprised St. John hadn't already noticed a certain eerie resemblance between Bingo and their current head of Imaging Control.

It was ironic. Here Sam had a chance to put Al's life right. Prove his innocence and save him from disgrace and prison -- and he was fervently hoping Sam would fail. Because getting his life back would mean nothing, if Sam wasn't a part of it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Gary. You'll still be here when the leap is over."

"How can you be so sure?" Al found himself asking, pleading to be reassured that he wasn't on the brink of losing Sam.

"Because you belong here. And Samuel needs you to be here, when he finally returns home." St. John patted Al's shoulder and rose. "Well, I've got to get back to the Imaging Chamber and let Samuel know about Alpha's latest predictions concerning that _sports car,_ " he said it as if it was a dirty word.

"Tell Gooshie I'll be in soon," Al told him.

The observer paused at the door before leaving. "I know it will all work out fine."

Watching the sunset, thinking about forever and promises, Al prayed St. John was right...

**the end**

4/23/95

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so "Dancing in the Moonlight" came out in '73. I like the scene and the song. This is an alternate universe, so the Swiss-cheesed time traveler from hell changed it. For you sticklers out there: Well, in the St. John timeline Sam leaped into a member of King Harvest and accidentally gave them the song idea three years too early...


End file.
